N9ne: The Tale of Kevin Clearwater (King, #9)(44)

“Having to deal with it?” he interrupts.

My shoulders fall as the realization sets in. Nine’s right. “Yeah, I guess so.”

“What a fucking shit,” he mutters, crumpling up his napkin.

“Understatement of the fucking year,” I mutter to Baby Vodka, my hand back around its neck.

We finish our food, and Nine goes to take a shower.

“Don’t go anywhere,” he warns, heading into the other room. “I’ve got cameras and alarms everywhere.”

I wipe the crumbs from the counter into my hand and shake them off in the trash. “Ha ha. Jokes on you, buddy, because it’s not like I have anywhere to go,” I say to myself.

A few moments later, Nine comes back from the other room. He’s wearing tight white tank top and grey sweatpants. His hair is wet and slicked back. There’s a large tattoo on his chest, but I can only see what looks like black feathers peeking out from his shirt, stretching to his shoulders and down his biceps. Wings that I can rule out as angel wings since they’re black and Nine is obviously no angel. His hazel eyes shine in the dim room. His large body takes up so much space in the room I can feel him next to me even though he’s not.

For the first time in hours, I’m at a complete loss for words.

I’ve never seen someone so effortlessly good-looking before. Jared was always pudgy around the middle and, even though he wouldn’t ever admit it, he used tinted face moisturizer, which is practically man-makeup.

Nine catches me staring, “Like what you see?”

I tear my eyes from him and look to my nails, trying my best not to sound affected. “You? No, you’re nothing special to look at. In fact, I think you could probably stand to bulk up. Switching up your fitness routine could work. You know, a change from torture and maiming to, perhaps, ax throwing or lumberjacking.”

He chuckles, and the sound washes over me as if he’s touched me with his words. “You’re cute when you ramble.”

“I am, actually. Thanks for noticing. ‘Bout time someone did.”

“Shower’s in there,” he jerks his chin to the room behind him.

I grab my backpack and Baby Vodka and squeeze past Nine’s body as I make my way through the door, assaulted with his smell and the heat of his nearness, as head to the bathroom, shutting the door behind me. I release a long held breath and lean onto the counter for support. I look up and wipe away the steam clouding the mirror at my weary reflection.

My makeup from the night before, or two nights before, or whenever it was that this entire shit show started, is smeared down my face. My hair is a nest of a nest. Worst of all, is that I’m too sober because if I were drunk, then I wouldn’t even realize how much of a hot mess is currently staring back at me.

The bathroom is rather large for an RV. Full-sized shower and sink.

I run the shower. The bathroom smells like his soap. Light and masculine.

Before I get in, I pluck my phone from my backpack to see if Yuli has texted me from the plane like she promised, but I have zero bars. I hit the speed dial with her number, and sure enough the message on the other end tells me that my service has been disconnected.

I toss it back in the bag with a frustrated growl and step into the shower.

I find a washcloth and locate the body wash on the ledge. I take my time, soaping up my body from head to toe and shampooing my hair. When I’m done, I grab my toiletries bag from inside my backpack and brush my teeth twice. I comb my hair and search the few items of clothing I’d shoved inside. I pull on a pair of navy blue lace panties and realize I didn’t bring any pajamas or really anything that could be considered pajamas at all. What I shoved in my bag in my delirious state is one crumpled business suit that I was going to have tailored because the seam in the back is ripped up the ass and a red pleather skirt I wore for Halloween one year when I dressed up as the devil.

Way to pack for the apocalypse of your life, Lenny.

I wrap a towel around myself and open the door into the bedroom, which is just big enough for the queen-sized bed and about a foot of walking space on each side. There are two drawers built in to the corner, and I’m lucky enough that the first one I open contains several clean white t-shirts. I pull one over my head, and it’s so big it hangs off my shoulders and almost reaches my knees. But it’s clothes, and it’s not ripped or red pleather.

So, there’s that.

I make my way out to where Nine is sitting on the small couch, trying to bandage his bleeding arm by himself.

“Need some help?” I ask.

Nine turns to look at me, and his eyes darken as he takes in what I’m wearing. Suddenly, I think he’s going to be pissed that I didn’t ask about wearing his shirt. “And I thought the fucking dress was bad,” he mutters.

“Sorry, about the shirt. I realize I didn’t pack any pajamas or…anything.”

He looks away and turns his attention back to bandaging his injury, but he’s having trouble tying it off since the injury is so high on his arm and on the very back.

“Here, I’ll do it,” I say. I sit on the couch facing him and take the first aid kit from his lap, setting it down on mine. He hands me the gauze, but I set it to the side. I open one of the alcohol packets and press the pad to his skin.

He flinches.

“Don’t be a baby,” I tell him, blowing on the dime-sized injury.